Little Hazy
by Helen West
Summary: A bitter but ambitious young orphan tries to improve his standing with an outlaw gang. Originally published for a challenge called Outlaw Olympics.


"Haz-y!" taunted Roy Treadway, the lock-picker for the notorious Red River Nine. The other men laughed at the new nickname for the boy who had recently joined a gang of what was actually a dozen men. Treadway was gleefully tormenting the new boy as the gang rode their horses slowly single-file along the side of a narrow, treacherous, scrub-pine-lined ravine. The gang was on its way back to their remote hideout in the Texas panhandle after robbing a small town bank. They had made some canny turns and twists in their getaway. Now, with no pursuit close enough to see, the outlaws were taking it easy. Fifteen-year-old Hannibal Heyes was bringing up the rear, as usual.

"Oh Hazy, look sharp!" called the gang's horse wrangler from a horse farther up the line. Heyes kept on reading a book on the American Revolution that he had leaning on his saddle horn. He tried to pay no mind to the men teasing him. But the boy's lips twitched with suppressed anger.

"Hazy! Don't ignore your elders and your betters, boy!" called Cliff Torey, the gang's fastest gun, riding just in front of Heyes.

Heyes looked up from his book and opened his mouth to protest. The pine branch Torey had been holding smacked painfully into the teenager's face. Heyes winced and pushed the branch out of the way, but he didn't say anything about it as the men laughed again. The black eye Torey had given the boy for sassing him a few days before was still a bit sore.

"What're you doing with that book, Hazy boy?" yelled back the hard-knuckled bruiser, Bart Crum, riding three horses up.

"Bettering myself!" declared Heyes stoutly in a surprisingly low voice for so skinny a boy.

"Ha! Waste of time, that!" laughed the Liverpool-born Treadway. "You'd do better to watch out for yourself and get out of the fog, Hazy!"

"The next time anybody calls me that . . ." started Heyes furiously.

"Shut up, Heyes!" called back John Richthofen, the leader of the gang. "Don't make threats you can't back up."

The gang now was riding over the edge of the ravine and emerging onto the high desert. Richthofen yelled to the boy at the end of the line, "Put away the damned book, Heyes! We've got to ride fast and get out of sight. Wipe out our tracks for 20 yards. Go get yourself a pine branch and get to work."

"But, boss, there's no posse after us."

"Do what I say, boy! Now! Before I cut you loose to starve again."

Heyes put away his battered but precious book and pulled his skinny old grey horse to the side of the trail. He jumped down and wrenched a branch off one of the scrub pines. He carefully swept away the gang's tracks. By the time he was done wiping out the trail, the gang was nearly out of sight among the scrubby hills. Heyes could see only a cloud of dust ahead of him. The boy mounted up and galloped frantically after them. It took the youngster a long and anxious while to catch up with the gang on his tired gelding. It was nearly dark by the time he joined up with the back of the group. Nobody took any notice that he was back.

Heyes sat on a rock barely within the circle of light from the camp fire in the desert as he ate dinner. The older men ate in companionable pairs and threes. None of them cared to sit by the brooding boy.

"You're on guard duty at 3:00 AM, Hazy," said Treadway as he went to get another helping.

"Ain't got a watch," answered Heyes resentfully.

"Don't worry. Smith will kick you when it's time. Then you kick Cookie at dawn. You better not fall back asleep. We don't want breakfast late."

"Yeah, alright."

"Alright what, Hazy?"

"Alright, sir."

The ugly outlaw kicked up dust that landed in the boy's food. Heyes bristled but was rapidly learning better than to complain.

When he had finished eating gristly, gritty antelope stew and had scrubbed his plate and spoon with sand, Heyes went to find Richthofen. The head man was leaning against a saddle.

"Boss," said Heyes, "the guys keep giving me grief."

The leader of the gang stopped picking his teeth with a cactus spine. "What do you expect? They do that with every new guy. With a boy like you, it's worse."

"How do I get them to stop ragging on me and let me be?"

Richthofen laughed harshly. "You don't like the nick names and the sand in your food? You stop 'em."

"But you're the leader. If you said . . ."

Richthofen cut him off. "Yeah, I'm head man. So I got better things to do than wipe the nose of every brat who wants to try outlawing. This ain't no charitable institution, boy, like that home for Waywards you and little Jed just ran away from."

"Charitable institution! If you think . . ."

"Don't sass me, Heyes! Didn't I take you and Jed in and feed you when you was near starved?"

"Yeah, boss, and I appreciate it. But . . ."

"No buts. Just do your work. Follow orders and keep your place. You need to be studying outlawing, not that book. Earn your keep and you'll keep eating."

"Yes, sir." The chastened Heyes turned to go.

Richthofen stood up and stopped Heyes, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I know you miss your little cousin. Bet he misses you, too. When we get back, if you want to go visit him at that ranch where he's working . . ."

"No, sir. The head man told me to stay away. They don't want outlaws like me around."

Richthofen burst out laughing. "Outlaws like you want to be, you mean!"

"Yes sir. So the men can do what they like to me."

"They can if you let 'em."

"But how do I stop 'em, boss? They're all so much bigger and got more time in the trade than me. And they can all outdraw me and have better guns. And their horses can all outrun mine any day."

"There's more ways to beat a man than by beating him to a pulp or shooting him down or beating him in a race, Heyes."

The dark-eyed youngster paused and considered that.

Richthofen told his youngest follower, "Would I have you in this bunch if I didn't think you could do us some good? And not just by doing chores and wiping out tracks. Anybody can do that. You think about it, boy."

"I ain't a boy no more."

"Ain't you? Prove it to me. Prove it to them." Richthofen pointed to the other gang members.

Heyes turned and went to find a soft place in the desert dust to lay his worn out blankets and shiver himself to sleep. He didn't look forward to being kicked awake in the cold dark of 3:00 AM.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Two days later, the men of the Red Rock Nine were hanging around the hideout's bunk house drinking and playing poker with their shares from the heist. They'd laze off until they had to work again on the next job.

Their boss was hard at work planning that next job. He knew better than to wait. Heyes wasn't lazing, either. He was riding his lean old horse as fast as it could go. He had left a bag full of old newspapers on the ground. Now Heyes leaned down to get it as he galloped past. He missed it and barely got back into the saddle. He circled around, slowing his horse to a walk. Then he spurred the horse into a gallop and rode toward the bag again. Heyes reached down lower and lower as he approached his target. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, hard. The boy scrambled awkwardly to his feet and went to catch his horse, which had soon dropped to a tired walk. Heyes was quickly back in the saddle, ignoring the laughter of two gang members who stood and watched his efforts. Heyes rode back and forth across the hills, practicing picking up small objects from the ground without dismounting. He fell again, and missed his grasp many times. But eventually he got to where he could pick up and ride off with a bag of pretend loot from a gallop.

"You've lost your mind, Hazy," said Torey as boy came in to the bunk house that afternoon. "You're gonna lame that old horse with all those games."

That wasn't Heyes' last time practicing fancy riding, either. He kept at it nearly every day, adding a new skill every time he mastered an old one, be it vaulting into the saddle or sidling up to open a gate. Sure enough, on the gang's next job, Heyes was riding last to close a gate behind them as they rode away from a train they'd stopped with a pile of rocks. Nobody said thanks, but Heyes knew he had a useful skill under his belt.

One day soon after that successful haul, Heyes saw when Treadway went out back of the bunk house in the afternoon. He got out a little anvil and a hammer. Then he went to work on some slender metal strips, flattening them and turning them to just the right shapes. Heyes went out back and watched the lock specialist work on his picklocks. "What's that one for, Roy?" asked the boy as Treadway worked on a long pick.

"None of your business, Hazy," said Treadway. "And address me with respect!"

"Yes, sir," responded Heyes modestly.

That evening Heyes brought Treadway's dinner on a pewter plate to him at the table. "What are you now, Hazy, a waiter?" asked the lock specialist.

"No, just being nice, Mr. Treadway, sir," said Heyes cautiously.

The next day, when Treadway got out his anvil and hammer, Heyes was watching again. When the lock picked got tired and retreated to the shade of the bunkhouse porch, the boy approached him. "Mr. Treadway, sir, would you please look at my picklocks and tell me what you think?" asked Heyes.

"Huh, sure," said Treadway, surprised. "Say, that's quite a set you've got there, Heyes. Where'd you get 'em?"

"A friend at the home gave me a few. But most of them I made them myself. It was the only way to get decent food and stuff – to steal it."

"Rough place, huh? Here, let me show you how this long one works," said Treadway, going to fetch a sample lock he had among his paraphernalia.

Richthofen looked out of his cabin window and nodded to himself.

The next job the Red River Nine pulled was a payroll rain robbery. It went off like clockwork, with a pile of stones on the track to stop the engine. A few sticks of dynamite soon had the payroll safe opened. And off the gang rode, with young Heyes at the end of the line. His old horse couldn't keep up with the others when they were going flat out, and that was what they were doing as they took off with the loot. They went even faster when they found a posse on their heels. They had accidentally set this job too close to a little town with a good sheriff who was determined to bring the miscreants to justice – and to get the reward offered on Richthofen and the famous gunman Torey.

The gang was off through a high-desert canyon at top speed, trying to lose the posse among the rock formations. But the sheriff on a striking black and white pinto horse kept his men close behind the Red River boys. At times Heyes could practically have spoken to the pursuing men.

As the pursuit took the gang near the side wall of the canyon, the big pinto with the blonde sheriff aboard was breathing down Heyes' neck. Torey drew his gun and shot the sheriff out of the saddle. Heyes looked back in shock, watching the blood spurting from the sheriff's chest as he fell almost on Heyes' heels. The other gang members cheered. They knew how lucky they were to have such a formidable gunman on their side. But Heyes swallowed hard to keep from vomiting at the bloody sight.

The posse was soon furiously on the trail of the Red River Nine again. As the gang rode close under the lip of the canyon, there was a small rock slide from above the gang. Pebbles and dust showered down. A rock the size of a baseball bounced off Torey's gun hand. He dropped his prize Colt with a yelp. The pistol flipped through the air and landed by the creek running along the trail. The gun was a famous one that Torey had modified. He look back in anguish to have lost this weapon that could make the difference between life and death. But Torey didn't dare dismount to get it – the posse was much too close.

Heyes, riding a few yards behind Torey, headed his horse toward the fallen gun. Without slowing down, Heyes leaned down from the saddle and scooped up the precious Colt in a single motion. Torey slowed his big chestnut long enough for Heyes to catch up and hand him back his prize weapon. Soon, Torey had winged two more posse members. The posse dropped back again in fear. It wasn't long before the Red River boys had outdistanced their pursuit.

That night around the campfire, Torey told a rapt audience, "I tell you, Heyes had that broomtail of his at full gallop and he grabbed up that gun like it was child's play. If he's messed it up, it might have gone in the water, been lost forever. He didn't hesitate and he got it."

"Here's to Hazy!" said Treadway, raising his flask.

"No," said Torey, raising his own flask, "Here's to Hannibal Heyes the outlaw." The other men laughed and cheered.

Later that night, Torey quietly called Heyes over to his bedroll. "Here you go, Heyes. A share of my share. You've earned it." He handed Heyes a small roll of bills.

"Wow, thanks, Mr. Torey," whispered Heyes, looking around cautiously as he pocked the cash. "I never got a share from a job before. Just my board."

"Keep it up, Heyes, and this won't be the last time," said the gunman.

But if Heyes thought one heroic bit of riding would get him home safely with this gang, he was wrong. The next day on the getaway trail, he was back riding at the back of the gang. He was wiping out tracks, watching for pursuit. When he tried to stop Bart Crum from calling him Hazy around the campfire that night, Heyes got a smack for his troubles. Even Torey didn't want to take on the roughest fighter in the bunch to save his new young friend. The gunman just ignored the whole incident.

Back at the hideout, Heyes kept up practicing his athletic riding tricks. And he worked more with Treadway on techniques for lock picking and opening windows. To this he added pistol practice with Torey, who also showed the boy how to keep his gun in the best condition and how to make some alterations to it. Heyes could see that he would never outdraw his younger cousin, but his speed and accuracy improved with practice. Richthofen watched his young protégé with approval.

The next job for the gang was robbing a big ranch house while the wealthy family was away on a European vacation. Only a few men went, Heyes among them. As Treadway opened the back door to let the gang in late at night, he called Heyes to watch him get past the formidable combination of locks. Inside, he showed Heyes around the silverware and candlesticks as they tucked the riches into sacks. He held up a lamp, "See, Heyes, this is good English silver here. See that mark – Henry Holland. Good maker. That's worth stealing. But this over here, badly made stuff, not even marked – not worth the trouble to haul away.

When they got to the main office, there was a formidable safe waiting for them. Treadway shook his head in regret. "I don't have a chance against that."

"Can't we use dynamite, Roy?" asked Heyes, puzzled.

"No! This job's gotta be quiet. If we blow anything, the hired men from bunk house will be down on us in no time. If we stay quiet, nobody's gonna know anything's gone until the family gets back in a few weeks. We'll be away safe and sound. Too bad they've got a serious safe. It's beyond my powers to open by manipulating the tumblers."

"Are there any men who could open that safe with the tumblers?" Heyes wanted to know.

"Sure. Just not one with this gang."

Richthofen walked up to the pair. "Let's go. We've got what we're getting here."

"Wait, boss, let me look at this," said Heyes, peering into a dark bedroom as the lamp in Treadway's hand sent a beam in the door. Heyes darted in while Treadway held the lamp for him. "Look – this painting has something behind it – the wall doesn't match. Look – it's a door." Heyes was excited as he pulled the painting away.

"I think you've earned the right to go after that door," said Treadway. Heyes pulled out his small ring of picklocks. He tried one – not right – another didn't work either. The third slender piece of twisted and bent steel, with some careful manipulation, did the trick. The little door popped opened.

Richthofen laughed in pleasure. "Now what do you suppose is behind that?"

Soon, Treadway was showing Heyes how to tackle the tiny old-fashioned safe hidden behind the door. It took an hour and a half of manipulation, but when the safe was opened, it was worth the wait. The little compartment was stuffed with bearer bonds.

"Would you look at that?" exclaimed Treadway in his Liverpool accent. "I'd say Mr. Heyes deserves a portion of that loot."

"You opened the door, Roy," said Heyes.

"You found it, Heyes," said the safe-cracker.

That night around the campfire, the Red River Nine divided up their loot. "I think Mr. Heyes should get a full share this time," said Richthofen. He looked around the ring of hard bitten faces. There was no argument from a single man – not even Crum. They all knew that a good portion of that take would never have gotten into their hands without Heyes and his quick eyes.

"Here you go, Heyes," said Richthofen, handing the boy a fat roll of bills and a bearer bond. Heyes gave the gang leader a brilliant smile.

When the gang visited a saloon on their way through the town nearest their hideout, Heyes finally had the means to get himself some drinks. And a girl.

"Say, Sylvia," said the teen-ager as he and the young harlot lay nude in her bed. "You ever done it with an outlaw before?"

She laughed. "Yes, Heyes. I'm seventeen. I've got plenty of experience. Jim Plummer's real good in bed."

"Tell me about him," asked Heyes, curiously.

Sylvia was taken aback. "Wouldn't you rather do it than talk about it?"

Heyes blushed. "I don't mean tell me about the man in bed – tell me what you know about the gang. Who's in it? How much money do they bring in?"

"Oh. You sure are all business, Heyes," giggled the lovely blonde Sylvia.

"Not all," said Heyes, pulling her back into his arms.

Heyes kept working and he kept doing more with the gang as the months went by. He got a regular share of takes, now. He went to find Richthofen in his cabin after dinner one night. The slender sixteen-year-old Heyes looked around carefully to make sure no one from the gang was watching as he knocked on the cabin door.

"Come in, Heyes. Have a seat. What is it?" asked Richthofen. "You're dressed to ride. It's late – where're you going in the dark?"

Heyes nodded and didn't sit on one of the half-log stools in the rough cabin. "Yeah. Boss, I've got another offer. You beat it and I'll stay."

Richthofen was startled. He hadn't known that anyone from any rival gangs had taken notice of the rapid development of this budding outlaw. "An offer? From who?"

Heyes' voice was hard. "Pardon me, but that's not your business."

Richthofen studied his protégé for a moment. "We're getting new horses next week. You can have your pick. Even before me. And a one fourteenth share of the take for all jobs you're in on."

Heyes shook his head. "Not good enough."

Richthofen could hardly believe it. "What are they offering?"

"A better share than that," said Heyes scornfully.

"I'll give you one twelfth, but I can't do better than that and you know it." Richthofen was starting to sound worried. Heyes had grown a couple of inches in the last few months, and had changed a lot more in other ways.

Heyes sounded more confident than his boss did. "I do know it. The gang making the offer brings in bigger takes than you do. And they're doing me better: a bigger share of that more money, and a new horse, and lessons from a good box man."

"They have a better man on safes than us?" The Red River Nine's leader was starting to guess where Heyes might be going.

"I'd hate to say it to Treadway after all he's done for me, but yeah. They do. And the man's gonna teach me the trade before he retires."

"It's the Plummer Gang."

Heyes nodded.

"Good luck, Heyes. Not that you need it. You're on your way. You leaving tonight?"

"Yeah. Saddle bags are all packed. Good-bye, John. Thanks for the food and lessons. See you on the trail." Hannibal Heyes shook the gang leader's hand, tipped his new black hat, and went out the door, never to return. After that night, John Richthofen saw protégé often – in newspaper headlines.

One note: in Exit from Wickenberg, Heyes tells Curry that the Plummer Gang was the first he ever rode with. Obviously, it had to have been the first gang he rode with after he and his cousin split up. Otherwise Curry would already have known about it.


End file.
